Fury of Desire (-4

by Coreene Callahan

  “No, Jamison… don’t!”

  His shout went unanswered as the wheelchair flipped, launching her out of the seat. She went up and over, dark hair flying as her head whiplashed. The sight made Wick snarl. Reality made him curse as he watched the IV tube stretch taut. The needle ripped from her arm. The scent of blood filled the air. Wick’s heart stalled, pausing mid-thump to hang inside his chest.

  Fucking hell. Another wound. More pain. Just what he’d hoped to avoid.

  But even as her life’s essence splattered across her hospital gown, he didn’t hesitate. Or stop running. He reacted instead. With a well-timed thought, he crushed the wheelchair mid-flip. Steel crumpled beneath the force. He hurled the compacted metal like a bowling ball, protecting the female from debris, aiming for the empty nurses’ station at the end of the hall. As steel slammed against the half wall, Jamison stopped going up and started to come down. Wick threw himself across the floor. Shitkickers leading the skid, he slid like a baseball player, arms extended, eyes locked on her, body prone to break her fall.

  A major-league move. Wicked results.

  Jamison landed with a solid bump against him. She whimpered in pain. His stomach clenched, but stayed true. Thank Jesus. He didn’t have time to freak out. Or puke. The whole aversion to being touched thing needed to stay where it belonged. On the back burner. Buried six feet under. In the passenger seat, not behind the wheel… whatever. Wick didn’t care how it happened, just as a long as he kept his shit together.

  For his sake, sure. But honestly, right now it was all about her.

  She needed him. And strange as it seemed, he wanted to provide whatever he could in the face of her agony.

  Jamison trembled against him. Wick cursed and, still in a full-body skid, locked his arms around her, wrapping her up tight to protect her from further injury. Jeans skating across the hospital floor, boot heels digging in, his T-shirt and jacket rode up, exposing his lower back. Wonderful. Just what he didn’t need. Rug burn via a heavy-duty industrial floor.

  Ignoring the pain, he hung onto his prize. The slip and slide slowed to a stop, leaving him sitting in the middle of the corridor. Breathing hard, shock wreaking havoc, he didn’t move. One second slipped into the next as he took stock. Bright lights overhead. Him on the floor. Her in his lap. He blinked. Holy shit, he’d done it. No hesitation. No balking. Just full-on commitment the moment she needed him. Now, she lay in his arms, a warm bundle curled against him, her head tucked beneath his chin.

  Pride picked him up, then circled deep. Panic tried to edge it out, closing his throat.

  Wick shoved it aside, along with his phobia. He didn’t have time for bullshit. She wasn’t out of the woods yet. And neither was he. He needed to get her the hell out of Swedish Medical. Down five floors to meet Forge and Mac. All while keeping her comfortable, so—

  Voices sounded, coming around a blind corner. His gaze narrowed, Wick’s head snapped in that direction. Multiple footfalls, one heavier than the others. At least one male in the group.

  “Shit,” he growled, knowing what it meant.

  Humans. A bunch of them headed his way.

  So much for his brilliant crush-the-wheelchair strategy. The crash-bang against the deserted nurses’ station had resulted in a ripple effect. Attention from a species known for their curiosity… and their ability to call the cops faster than an F-18 going Mach 1. So yeah. No time like the present. He needed to get the hell out of Dodge.

  In a big fucking hurry.

  Gathering his magic, Wick rolled to his feet. Jamison moaned. He adjusted his hold, gentling his touch, and conjured a cloaking spell. Leading the pack, a security guard entered the corridor with two nurses hot on his heels. Power snapped. Invisibility rippled, hiding Wick and Jamison behind a wall of no-can-see.

  As they disappeared into thin air, the guard stopped short. “Good God, did you see that?”

  “See what?” one of the nurses asked.

  Cradling Jamison close, Wick took a big step backward. His shoulder blades collided with the corridor wall. Excellent plan. The best on every front, ’cause… yeah. Getting out of the way—giving the human trio plenty of room to walk past—seemed like a good idea.

  “I thought I saw…” The human shook his head. His gaze swept the length of the hall, narrowing on the spot where Wick had disappeared. The guard opened his mouth, then closed it again. “It’s nothing, I just thought—”

  “Holy cow.” Nurse number two stepped around the guard. A perplexed look on her face, she hustled toward the balled-up wheelchair. “Would you look at this?”

  “What?” Boots squeaking, the guard strode past Wick to rendezvous with the nurse.

  “Someone wrecked a wheelchair… like in a trash compactor or something.”

  “Jesus.” The guard unclipped the walkie-talkie from his utility belt. “I gotta call this in.”

  Wick snorted. Good luck with that. All hospital authorities would get was a load of crumpled steel and no explanation. Which meant they’d stay clueless. Perfect. Just the way he liked humans, well… at least, most of the time. Jamison, however? He needed to clue her in fast, not to mention get her help. She was bleeding from the cut on her arm, shivering against him…

  Hurting. In shock. In need of serious care.

  Or something.

  Wick couldn’t be sure. Injured females weren’t his specialty. Glancing down at her, he grimaced. God, she was pale, her lips nearly bloodless, eyelashes nothing but dark smudges against her cheeks, and…

  Ah hell, who was he kidding? He wasn’t equipped for this. Didn’t know what to do or how to help her. Females, as a rule, belonged anywhere but near him. Venom always dealt with the touchy-feely stuff. It worked better that way, considering his propensity for violence and the phobia he carried around like baggage. But as he scanned her face, Wick refused to cop out. Not tonight. Her care fell to him, at least in the interim. Time to dig in, grow a pair, and get it done.

  Inhaling long and smooth, Wick cradled her closer and put himself in gear. Striding past the gaggle of humans still extolling over the wheelchair, he paused at an intersection. Empty in both directions, two options existed: turn right or go left. Recall flared, providing the layout of Swedish Medical. Wick turned right. As he walked toward the stairwell exit, he scanned the hallway for a place to check her wounds. An empty room. A chair pushed up against a wall. Hell, a broom closet would do, just as long as he found a place to put her down and—

  Bingo. An empty gurney.

  Parked against the wall, the hospital bed was just what the doctor ordered. Solid. Soft. Comfortable. Exactly what Jamison required and he needed for a minute or two.

  Wielding his power, Wick enclosed the bed in the cloaking spell. Privacy ensured, he sat her down on the cotton sheet. Eyes still closed, her brows puckered. The plaster cast on her foot bumped the inside of his leg, making her list sideways. Instinct made him reach for her. The sleeves of her hospital gown brushed the back of his hand as he grasped her biceps. Upon contact, her bio-energy flared, zapping him with—

  Jesus Christ. Holy God. Not even close to good, never mind advisable.

  Wick sucked in a quick breath as a channel opened inside him. Oh fuck, the Meridian. The electrostatic current was… it was… reversing course, tying him to the female he touched, making it impossible for him to let go. Locked against her, he felt her connect, then link in, becoming one with the energy stream that fed his kind. Except…

  He wasn’t the one doing the feeding.

  She was—blocking his ability to fight, drawing heat from his core, rendering him powerless in the face of her need. Wick gritted his teeth. He never should have touched her. Should’ve known better than to make contact with her bare skin. Jamison was high energy, and his dragon half way too responsive. Despite his aversion—and objections—the beast wanted to feed her. Now the fucker was providing something Wick never had before… healing energy. In a gushing torrent, forcing him into serious sensory overload.


  His stomach pitched. He flexed his fingers, willing intellect to override instinct. He must let her go… right now… take his hands from her skin before—

  His dragon snarled. Well, so much for that. The idea was a total no-go. The territorial beast inside him refused to back down, robbing him of recourse. No way out. No backtracking either. He was headed into dangerous territory, the kind Wick knew he might not come back from as the energy stream intensified.

  The strain put him in lockdown.

  He fought the imprisonment along with the rumble of body tremors. All to no avail. Jamison possessed the power, and until she pushed him away, he was stuck. Trapped. Tied to her in irrevocable ways and unable to stop the awful rush of energy moving from him into her. And judging by the look on her face? Not something that was likely to happen anytime soon. Relaxed against him, she took everything he gave, clinging to her connection and the Meridian’s power.

  With a hum, she nestled in, pressed her cheek to his heart.

  “Fucking hell,” he rasped, still fighting her hold on him. “Jamison… let go. You’ve got to—”

  “No.” Eyes closed, voice slurred, she shook her head. The slight movement caressed his chest, cranking him a notch tighter. “Feels too good. You… stay… with me.”

  Frozen in place, Wick prayed for mercy. She didn’t give him any. Pressing closer, she sighed and wiggled to the edge of the mattress. A second later, she grew bolder, wrapping both of her legs around one of his thighs. The heat of her body snug against his, she murmured in contentment. He cursed and tried one more time to back away. With a grumble, she slid her arms around his waist and hugged him close.

  Hugged him, for Christ’s sake. Him. A male who hated to be touched, and yet…

  Wick frowned. He didn’t feel threatened. Or the need to throw up either. Which didn’t jive. Not by a long shot.

  He always panicked when near a female. But not with Jamison. Strange, but for some reason, she didn’t push him into flee-like-a-motherfucker mode. Wick snorted. All right, so that wasn’t quite true. He didn’t like it—wasn’t sure he wanted to keep touching her—but at least the closeness wasn’t freaking him out. And like it or not, that begged a question.

  How far could he push it?

  An interesting concept. One that made him want to explore a little.

  Swallowing past his sudden case of dry mouth, Wick forced his muscles to unlock. As his tension ebbed, the current increased. A prickle rushed over the tops of his shoulders, then slid upward on a mesmerizing glide to stroke the base of his skull. His senses tunneled, attuning him to the female in his arms. He focused on the top of her head. Legs and arms around him, she surrounded him, blurring his vision with flaming energy. His dragon rose to meet her, giving what she demanded, feeding her from the flow. Wick’s lids grew heavy. He blinked—once, twice, a third time—struggling to combat the sudden haze of mind-fog.

  Oh baby. That felt unbelievable. Nourishing. Gentle. Hot as hell.

  And he wanted more. Just a little bit more, but…

  Hmm, yum. So good. She was so damned good.

  Wick swayed on his feet and, forcing his eyes open, stared at the pale wall over her head. Huh. Not home. Not in a club. He frowned, swimming through the river of heat to find the truth. He should be doing something… shouldn’t he? The question helped his brain kick over. Yeah. Right. No question. He needed to be somewhere doing something for someone.

  Giving his head a shake, he uncurled his hands from her upper arms. The current downgraded, moving from ball-busting intense to soft and smooth. She grumbled in protest. The urge to reconnect and strengthen the flow poked at him. He ignored the need and inhaled long and deep. The scent of blood reached him. Concern shoved the load of feel-good aside.

  Jesus help him. She was hurt.

  The realization propelled him into action. Looking for the wound, Wick’s gaze skimmed over her. He found the cut in under a second flat. The IV needle had torn her arm open, leaving a gash just above her wrist. Grabbing the blanket edge, he applied pressure to the injury and conjured some medical supplies, only to realize she wasn’t bleeding anymore. The plasma had clotted and—

  Wow. Would you look at that? The cut was closing too, healing much faster than he would’ve expected for a human.

  Dumping the roll of tape and sterile gauze on the bed beside her, he examined the wound more closely.

  She flinched. “Ouch.”

  “Sorry, baby,” he murmured, keeping his tone soft. Holding her steady, he ripped the package of gauze open. With a quick twist, he wrapped the thick bandage over her wound, then reached for the roll of tape. “Almost done.”

  “Baby?” Dark lashes flickered. A slow up and down before she opened her eyes. Under the influence of the Meridian, magic went to work on the drugs in her system. As he watched, the empty-eyed expression she wore started to dissipate, helping mental acuity along. “No one ever calls me that.”

  “No?” Surprising, really. The endearment suited her.

  She shook her head. “Get called Injin a lot though.”

  “Who calls you that?”

  “Asshole Griggs.”

  “Sounds like asshole Griggs needs his head ripped off.”

  “Been saying that for years,” she said, her words slurring a little.

  A half smile on her face, she gazed up at him. Wick’s heart flip-flopped, doing a somersault behind his breastbone. Jesus, she was pretty. Even with her split lip, busted leg, and all the bruises, she was the most beautiful female he’d ever seen. Which made him think he’d lost his mind. The fact he wanted to call her “baby” confirmed it. He was officially upside down and backward, waist deep in a stink hole and sinking fast. But even as he told himself to get a grip, the urge to return her smile snaked through him. He retreated instead, playing it safe, putting distance between them as he smoothed tape over the bandage.

  She made a face, protesting the pressure of his hands. “That hurts. I hurt… all over.”

  “I know,” he said, feeling the need to apologize again.

  Christ help him, without meaning to, he kept adding to her pain. Wick swallowed past the knot in his throat. Perfect, wasn’t it? She needed gentle. He gave her rough. The truth slapped him in the face. He wasn’t equipped to care for her, never mind provide comfort. Duh… made total sense. Kindness had never been part of his makeup. He didn’t have a big heart or a gentle nature. Violence and cruelty, however? Wick knew both well. But as she held his gaze, something crazy happened. He saw the trust in her eyes—the kind of acceptance he’d never experienced—and wanted to be different. The idea sparked another, providing guidance, laying the groundwork for know-how and…

  All of a sudden, he knew how to handle her.

  Her eyes slid closed again.

  “Jamison, look at me.” A crinkle puckered her brows, but she gave him what he asked for and opened her eyes. Nodding his approval, he murmured to her, adopting Venom’s method. By all accounts, females liked soothing tones. His friend employed the technique all the time, using the sound of his voice to bring comfort and pleasure. Not something Wick ever indulged in, but… hell, why not? No harm in trying, so he got with the program and talked to her. “I’m going to pick you up… carry you out, all right? It’s going to hurt, but I need to—”

  “You know my name.”

  “Yeah.”

  Tears welled in her eyes. “I guess that means it’s official.”

  “What?”

  “I’m sorry.” One tear escaped and rolled down her cheek. The urge to brush the moisture away gripped him. He hesitated a moment, then lifted his hand and gave in to the compulsion. And why not? With her clinging to him, his no-touching rule was already history. No sense freaking out about it. “I know it’s your job, but I’m not ready. I don’t want to die.”

  His lips twitched. Amazing, but even overloaded by the Meridian, she was astute. Him and killing, after all, went hand and hand. “I’m not here to kill you.”

  “You’r
e not?”

  He shook his head.

  “But you and the other angel were—”

  Wick snorted. Angel. Now that was a stretch. “I’m here to help. Tania sent me.”

  She blinked again. Another slow up and down. “Wow, that was fast. I only just sent the text message.”

  The whispered words wound him tight. “You called Tania?”

  “Nurse’s cell phone.”

  “Shit.”

  “Is that bad?” Injury and exhaustion made her lean on him. Wick shifted toward her instead of away, catching her forward slump. The electrostatic prickle connecting them intensified, making him wince. “Sorry, but I couldn’t wait. Asshole Griggs is here, remember? He’s mean, and I need a lawyer.”

  “It’s all right,” he said, reacting to her fear even as he fought what she made him feel. Intense, raw, beyond normal, she made him feel far too much. Dangerous things. Wholly unfamiliar things. Things that could never be taken back. And as she turned him inside out, snuggling in, putting them skin-to-skin again, Wick wanted to be anywhere but here, holding her, caring for her… frickin’ feeding her. “We gotta move, vanzäla.”

  “Vanzäla… that’s pretty,” she said, holding in a yawn. “What does it mean?”

  Wick cursed under his breath. Nice going, hot shot. The last thing he needed was to give her a pet name in Dragonese. “Nothing.”

  “Tania and I have a rule.”

  “Really.”

  “Yup.” Fading fast, she stopped fighting it and yawned. “No lying allowed.”

  Sucky rule. Particularly since lying would be easier. More expedient too, but… whatever. If she wanted honesty, he’d give it to her. What could it possibly hurt? Not much. Half baked by the drugs, deep in the energy stream, she wouldn’t remember anything he said anyway.

  Shrugging out of his jacket, he settled the leather around her shoulders. “Vanzäla means ‘songbird’ in my native tongue.”

  “Oh, that’s nice,” she whispered, her eyes half-closed. “I like you. You’re nice.”

  Nice? Wick stifled a snort. Sure, he was. “And you’re completely shitfaced.”